


Past The Point Of No Return

by AFarFetchedPlot



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Intrigue, Irene is an opera singer, Mystery, Sherlock is mysterious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFarFetchedPlot/pseuds/AFarFetchedPlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 19th Century Paris, the story follows Irene Adler, a young Soprano recently arrived from New York, and her encounters with the infamous Opera Ghost at the Palais Garnier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One - The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a strange idea, I know, but it really wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you enjoy it - I've tried to stay as historically accurate as I can, but I will admit to using a certain amount of Artistic License in some parts. I do hope you'll forgive me for that. Also, just to state - this is not meant to be a re-telling of the Phantom of the Opera with Sherlock characters; Irene is not supposed to be Christine etc (though I dare say she will invariably share some qualities/similarities with her in some respect, purely because of the setting and what-not). And while this is (or will be) an Adlock story, there are likely to be appearances from various other Sherlock characters too. So with that, enjoy!

Stepping from the carriage, Irene Adler gazed up at the impressive stone façade of the Paris Opera House thoughtfully, the wind teasing an ebony curl free from beneath her hat and causing it to dance across her porcelain skin, gently caressing her cheek. With eyes the colour of a winter sky and dressed in an elegant gown of periwinkle blue, she cast a fashionable figure in the glow of the gaslights as she let her gaze travel slowly over the elaborate carvings and lavish exterior of the famed Palais Garnier, ignoring the incessant wind and its attempts to attract her attention. So _this_  was to be her new home…

She had heard a lot about the Opera House, and not just about their legendarily lavish performances; the building was supposedly haunted, and the exploits of the 'Opera Ghost' as he had been dubbed by the local press had quickly fallen into myth among the various factions of Parisian society. Although the nobility pretended to be above such things, they , along with the lower classes, delighted in sharing chilling tales of all manner of mischief and chaos which had been unleashed upon the unfortunate Company when the spirit's will was disobeyed, whether wilfully or accidentally. The Opera House had seen it all, from movement of important props at the last moment to severe injuries from falling scaffolding and scenery alike, and all at the hands of the phantom, if the rumours were to be believed. The Opera Ghost had cast a spell over the city, weaving a web of intrigue which hadn't failed to entice Irene to Paris from across the Atlantic; she found the whole idea rather  _fascinating_ , and when she had been approached to replace the previous Soprano for the remainder of the season, Irene had jumped at the chance. A lifetime of pouring over detective stories had left her with a thirst for mystery, and  _this_  one was far too enticing to ignore; she couldn't wait to learn more, to try and get to the bottom of the puzzle and hopefully even catch a glimpse of the man himself.

Smiling to herself, she climbed gracefully up the steps of the Opera House and stepped willingly into the welcoming embrace of the imposing building and whatever fate it held for her.

*

High up in the towering edifice a cloaked, shadowy figure watched the woman as she entered the building,  _his_  building, his cool gaze narrowing with disdain. So this was Irene Adler… The new Soprano, if reports circulating the city were to be believed, fresh from the Academy of Music in New York. And all decided without his say-so… His managers were slipping, forgetting their places once again. He'd have to rectify that.

"Welcome to the Opera House, Mademoiselle Adler," he murmured with a grim smile. "Do enjoy your  _brief_  stay…"

 


	2. Chapter Two - The Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mademoiselle Adler,
> 
> I am afraid your journey here has been wasted; you are not needed. And if you wish to avoid a terrible fate tonight, you will cancel your performance and return to America. As soon as possible.
> 
> You have been warned...
> 
> O. G.'
> 
> In which Irene receives her first note from the Opera Ghost and makes an important decision.

Her first week in Paris had passed quickly and almost entirely without incident, much to Irene's dismay. Hour after hour had been spent rehearsing the upcoming performance of Chalumeau's Hannibal, with Irene set to play the female lead of Elisa, but not so much as a ballet shoe had been moved or misplaced by the mysterious Phantom. Something in which the rest of the company at least, appeared to rejoice. Still, the lack of interruptions had had some benefits in Mademoiselle Adler's eyes; a quick study when it came to new scores, Irene was now facing the enticing prospect of her operatic debut at the Palais Garnier that very evening.

Glancing up at a soft knock to the door of her dressing room, Irene flicked her gaze back to the mirror, checking her reflection once more before calling out.

"Come in." Watching in the mirror as the opening door revealed her managers, the soprano gave a slight smile, turning to face them as she inclined her head gracefully in greeting. "Monsieur Lestrade, Monsieur Anderson. A pleasure to see you both again."

Gregory Lestrade, the elder of the two, was a tall, broad shouldered gentleman with startlingly silver hair, whose warm brown eyes nevertheless held more than a hint of unease and discomfort at his surroundings. A self-made man, it was always evident that Lestrade felt less than comfortable in the opulence and sheer  _ostentatious_  nature of the Opera House, overly aware, perhaps, that this all belonged to a world to which he should never have been granted access. Philippe Anderson, on the other hand, was a thin, sallow-faced man who oozed obsequiousness from every pore, his age making him foolish, but well-meaning. The youngest son of a nondescript member of the middle-class bourgeoisie, Philippe had only managed to persuade his parents to allow him to buy into the theatre as a last attempt to find him a useful outlet. No-one had been more surprised than the men in question when, between them, Lestrade and Anderson had helped to increase the popularity of the Parisian Opera House, putting on exquisite show after exquisite show and taking the city by storm. The combination of Gregory's steadying influence and Philippe's youthful exuberance had, thus far, proved a heady combination.

Beaming broadly, Anderson moved further into the room, taking Irene's hand in his and brushing a kiss to the back of her knuckles.

"Mademoiselle Adler, the pleasure is all ours, believe me. We have heard a great many things about you, of course, and we're thrilled, utterly  _thrilled_  that you are here. What a coup! That you would want to work in our little Opera House… An honour, Mademoiselle, I assure you."

"Why thank you, Monsieur, " Irene murmured, a slight smile tugging at her lips as Lestrade, standing just behind the younger man, promptly rolled his eyes and heaved a soft, long-suffering sigh. "I am sure I will enjoy my time here immensely."

"Enough, Philippe, " Gregory interrupted abruptly as a delighted Anderson opened his mouth again. "You will scare poor Mademoiselle Adler away, and we would not want that on the eve of her Parisian debut, would we?"

"Gracious,  _no_ -" Laughing lightly, Irene shook her head slightly at the mortified Anderson, mild amusement dancing in her piercing grey gaze.

"I can assure you, Messieurs, I do not scare so easily. You have nothing to fear on that score," she said, smile widening marginally in reassurance as she turned back towards the mirror and picked up her silver-back hairbrush. Watching covertly in the mirror as she carefully brushed her dark curls, the brief look the two men shared – relief mixed with… Was that  _apprehension_ …? – clearly visible and piquing her curiosity. Perhaps the rumours were more true than her first encounters with the building had suggested…

Her thoughts were interrupted by another light tap on the door, and repeating her invitation to enter, she turned to see the kindly face of Madame Hudson, Mistress of the House, enter, an envelope clutched in her hand.

"Oh! Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I had no idea you had any visitors," the elderly lady exclaimed, looking slightly flustered. "Only a note was left for you-" A strangled yelp escaped from Monsieur Lestrade at that as he leapt towards the startled Madame Hudson, attempting to usher her from the room as quickly as possible.

"Now, now, Madame," he said, forcing an entirely unconvincing laugh, his eyes wild and desperate. " _La Diva_  does not need to be disturbed with trivial things like  _notes_  at this time. She has a performance to prepare for after all! Perhaps later…"

"Wait." Pausing, Gregory reluctantly glanced back over at Irene, who had risen to her feet and was holding out her hand expectantly. "If the note is addressed to me, Monsieur, then I wish to see it."

"But…" Trailing off, shoulders slumping in defeat, the older man gave a sigh, stepping aside to allow the (now slightly ruffled) Madame Hudson forward to complete her errand. Watching closely as the letter was handed over, he cleared his throat softly, gaze still firmly fixed on the note as he murmured, voice barely audible; "I can only hope you meant what you said earlier about not scaring easily, Mademoiselle…"

Ignoring his last remark, Irene turned the thick paper over in her hands, gaze lingering on her name, scrawled across the front in an elegant hand she did not recognise.

_Mademoiselle I. Adler_

A thick seal of blood-red wax marked the reverse, a grotesque, twisted skull leering up from the paper, and, ignoring Lestrade's muffled curses and Anderson's muted babbling at the sight, she inched her fingers beneath the fold of paper and carefully broke the seal. Curiosity well and truly aroused by this point, she unfolded the short letter and began to read.

* * *

 

_Mademoiselle Adler,_

_I am afraid your journey here has been wasted; you are not needed. And if you wish to avoid a terrible fate tonight, you will cancel your performance and return to America. As soon as possible._

_You have been warned._

_To my managers, who are no doubt fawning over their new star; you have already been shown the consequences of ignoring my demands. Do not try my patience further, Messieurs._

_And remember what I have said, Mademoiselle._

_O. G._

* * *

 

"W-Well? Is… Is everything alright?" An anxious Anderson asked, managing a shaky smile which did a poor attempt at masking his worry. Looking thoughtful, Irene passed the note to him, considering the words of the mysterious 'O.G.'. Words designed to scare, clearly, but with no specific threat to speak of, she found it difficult to take the words at all seriously; if anything, it had merely served to fuel both her interest in The Phantom and her determination to sing.

"Well, that's that then!" Having read the note while Irene had been pondering the contents, Lestrade threw his hands up in despair. "We are going to have to cancel the performance. I'm telling you, Philippe, this  _damned_  Opera Ghost is going to put us all out of business."

"I  _told_  you we should have listened to him-"

"Why do you need to cancel the performance?" The two men turned to gape at the young woman, disbelief etched across their faces.

"The… The note!" Anderson spluttered, waving the offending item in the air. "He warns of a 'terrible fate', Mademoiselle, and the Opera Ghost's words are not to be taken lightly. You must have heard the stories, you cannot possibly be intending to  _sing_ -"

"I do not see why not; that  _is_  why you pay me, Monsieur, no?" Irene replied with an arched eyebrow, coolly meeting her manager's wide-eyed gaze.

"But-"

"But nothing. It will take more than the vaguely threatening words of a  _spectre_  to scare me and prevent me from performing."

" _But_ -"

"Are you quite sure, Mademoiselle?" Gregory asked, expression serious. "The Opera Ghost… Bad things happen around here when he is not listened to."

"That is what I  _told_  you…" Anderson muttered under his breath, earning himself an exasperated look from Lestrade.

" _The point is_  we would not want you to put yourself at risk," the older man continued.

"Your concern is touching, Monsieur Lestrade, but unnecessary; I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I  _will_  perform tonight, Opera Ghost or no. So, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a performance for which I need to prepare."

*

The Phantom's eyes narrowed in displeasure, mouth tightening into a thin line as he listened to the conversation between the new soprano and the fools who claimed to run his theatre.  _Idiots_. Turning away, he swept silently down the long corridor, hidden deep within the walls of the Palais Garnier , his dark cloak swirling and snapping behind him in a dramatic flurry of fabric. So, they were determined to ignore his orders, were they? Well, he would show them,  _remind_  them exactly with whom they were dealing. Smiling grimly, eyes dark with new plans and ideas for reclaiming his Opera House, the Ghost continued on his way, deeper into the heart of the building. He too had a performance to prepare for, after all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you're enjoying this so far - it's been fun to write :) Chapter Three has already been written and I'm currently working on Chapter Four, so hopefully updates won't be too long in coming ^-^ Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter Three - Think Of Me

The promise of new talent from America had enticed the rich and powerful of the Parisian Elite to the Palais Garnier, every seat sold for the first time in an age. No expense had been spared and the entire auditorium sparkled and gleamed, matched and enhanced by the jewels and bright gowns of Paris’ finest, flocking to see the debut of Mademoiselle Adler… Which was _precisely_ what the Opera Ghost wanted; more witnesses to spread the news, to warn them what would happen if his wishes were not adhered to. Was it really so difficult to _listen_ and do as he said? _Morons_.

High above the stage, The Phantom stood in the shadows, watching the drama unfold onstage. It would soon be time for the entrance of their _leading lady_ , for her character to sing their opening aria. But not tonight. Expression grim, but determined, he tightened his grip on the coarse rope, waiting for the perfect moment; he would teach them that he was not to be trifled with. The Palais Garnier _would_ be run the way he wanted. It had to be.

*

Stood in the wings, Irene felt the familiar flutterings of first night nerves stirring in her stomach and smiled slightly; this was always one of her favourite parts, the anticipation and feeling of adrenaline performing gave her. It was almost like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the perfect moment to topple forward, free-falling on a cushion of music to be soothed and caressed by the gentle symphony.

The tone of the music changed, signalling her imminent entrance, and, taking a deep breath, Irene straightened her shoulders. It was time for her debut at the Paris Opera House.

*

There she was.

Narrowing his eyes, he watched as she swept gracefully onto the stage, acting as though she _owned_ it. As though she had any right to be there. With her ebony curls cascading around her pale, bare shoulders, a cluster of small, silver stars pinning her hair from her face, she appeared to almost glow in the lamplight as she glided into position. Dressed in a full dress of simmering emerald green, he supposed she could be considered beautiful, though he quickly dismissed the thought. Ridiculous. _Music_ was beautiful. And he was not about to let an outsider ruin that for him.

“I did warn you… Au Revoir, Mademoiselle,” he muttered, feeling the weight of the scenery flat in the rope held tight in his hands; heavy enough to scare but not injure, though with the threat of worse to come. Similar plots had lead to the hasty departure of the less desirable company members, and The Phantom had no doubt it would affect the similar removal of the Adler woman. _And not a moment too soon…_ Loosening his grip slightly, he prepared to send the entire contraption plummeting to the stage and the unsuspecting woman below.

But then she opened her mouth to start to sing, and The Phantom froze, transfixed. Gentle, yet with an undercurrent, a _hint_ of power which left his skin tingling, her voice soared through the Opera House. Closing his eyes, he felt his soul fly with the swelling music; carried aloft by the spell of her song, he felt more at peace than he had for some time, the relentless, restless, gnawing boredom he inevitably fought to keep at bay finally laid to rest, at least temporarily.

Forcing his eyes open as the final passage of her aria ended, echoing around the auditorium and mixing with the eruption of tumultuous applause from the audience, he stared at the rope in his hands for a long moment, gaze unfocused. Several minutes passed with him, frozen, before he shook his head, as though to clear it. Moving quickly, but quietly, he returned the rope to its original position, deftly tying it securely before melting back into the shadows. There would be no misfortune that night; it seemed his moronic managers had actually gotten something right for once with their procuring of Irene Adler for his Opera House. It was bound to happen at some point he supposed…

Pausing in his progress through the mess of ropes and gangways high above the stage, his gaze fell once more to the dark-haired figure of Mademoiselle Adler, drawn there almost against his will. Part of him longed for nothing so much as to hear but another _fragment_ of her singing, while another, larger part was trying desperately to ignore the effect her performance had had on him. It had settled under his skin, however, although it irked him to admit it, and he even found himself fleetingly glad his note had not caused her to flee, as they had done with so many _inferior_ singers before her. Scowling even as he recognised the truth of this thought ( _ridiculous_ ), the Opera Ghost abruptly turned his back on the brightly glittering stage and the new soprano who seemed to shine brightest of all, before dissolving once more into shadows.

*

Upon her return to her dressing room after her final curtain call, Irene found a single red rose had been left for her, an ink black ribbon tied around its stem. Attached to the bloom was a note;

_Brava._

_Welcome to my Opera House, Mademoiselle._

_O.G._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... I grossly overestimated my ability to update this as often as I'd like; Uni's been ridiculously busy, and what with trips to hospital and various illnesses, I have had less free time than I was hoping. Sorry guys... Hopefully the next update won't be too long in coming ^-^"


End file.
